Sobs are louder than swords
by bunnyofawesomeness
Summary: Wylfred is descending down a dark path rife with guilt. A decision in battle is not without its costs.


This battle couldn't be won. As Wylfred tried to simultaneously hold blood-spurting wounds and fend off the enemy, he descended further into hopelessness. All the classic battle woes were upon them: heavily outnumbered and out powered. Even the slight chance of a clumsy retreat was shattered by the enemy's expert strategy of surrounding them and blocking all exits.

A bit afraid of the sight he would see, he glanced over to his right to see his comrade Cheripha peppered with deep gashes and struggling to lift her bow. Sword-torn and tottering clumsily, she looked like she might collapse soon. And she was far too close to that brute of a swordsman. If that enemy got close, she would be no more. He dared a step in her direction but was forced backwards by an onslaught of sword strikes in his direction.

He swung around to his other side, hoping Lockswell might somehow remain unscathed enough to help Cheripha, but alas, he too was looking in need of some rescuing. He was desperately chanting spells at an approaching enemy who was swinging his sword menacingly. His aged body trembled with effort at a few pathetic spells.

Wylfred was no optimistic whelp. No amount of teamwork or luck could overcome this amount of pure skill and numbers. He knew if this continued they would all meet their deaths. He would be stuck with his sorrow, struck dead before his revenge could be realized. Maybe that accursed Valkyrie would come and laugh at his quick failure. He would not have it!

With a grunt he heaved his sword to slice through the man in front of him and caught his breath at the temporary reprieve. His fingers wandered in his pocket to brush against the feather already losing it's whiteness. The deal, to give him power, enough to defeat the valkyrie. It was held in this feather. Surely it could handle a few mortal swordsmen?

As his fingers closed around the feather, he recalled it's effects last time. His friend Ancel had the power bestowed upon him and fought brilliantly against raging monsters like they were unmoving targets. The effects, however, were absolutely wretched. His friend, his dear friend, oh forgiveness for that was unthinkable. Ancel must be cursing his name from above, lamenting that he ever befriended such a revenge-stained, hard-hearted betrayer.

More swordsmen replaced the one he had cut down and Wylfred once again struggled to continue battle. Panic started to seep into his normally calm mind as more cuts were added to the collection on his body. Wooziness from blood loss started to creep upon him like a snake squeezing the reason from his brain. He could barely stand. Was that more coming? Something had to be done!

His hand once again twitched toward the feather. Just one sentence while holding it and the battle could be easily won. But how could he, knowing the effects? It would only be worse this time, knowing the exact consequences of a victory. Would he pay with lives and his very soul for his revenge?

He was pushed back again, scarcely able to fend off the blows. He saw the mocking grins of the enemies, already celebrating their assured victory. No, not yet, he could not die yet. Not until that valkyrie is wracked with sorrow as he is. He would use the feather.

His eyes flickered to Cheripha, looking even worse than before. And just earlier she had been babbling on about some waterfall close to here that they simply must see. Her rainbow-splashed dreams contrasted sharply with his, but did admire her optimism in this world quickly spiraling into endless conflict and death. No, he would not smite another young life. With grim determination, he faced his other comrade, Cheripha's father Lockswell, and wished he could at least apologize. But they could not know.

He grabbed the sin-stained feather, using what was left of his strength to thrust it above his head and say the incantation.

"Feather o'er the battle field...unto me thy power yield!" he shouted. Taking on a sinister glow seemingly born of darkness itself, the plume emitted it's light towards Lockswell until he took on a ghastly red light.

Looking at his hand as if some foreign object, Lockswell asked "What is this power?" An enemy came close to him but he shot out a blinding spell that blasted the person too far back to even see. Confused but not about to waste this gift, Lockswell proceeded to quickly eliminate all the other opponents with bursts of overwhelming magic. It was not long before all enemies were felled.

Wylfred couldn't help a trickling sigh of relief. His vengeance had not died here. Just as he was about to walk away, he heard the distinctive sound of a body crumpling to the ground with agonizing coughs. The effects.

"Father? Father, what ails you?" called Cherphia, voice spilling with concern. Despite her injuries, she hobbled over to where Lockswell was curled up one the ground, plagued by trembles and coughs. They had just made up too, a couple days ago. After 16 years of conflict, they had just made peace.

Wylfred refused to look. It was not as if it was his best friend. He should not feel guilt like snakes curling hard against his throat.

"Cherphia...you've grown so beautiful. Your mother would be proud. I'll be sure to tell her all about how brave you are when I see her," whispered Lockswell between coughs. Even though he was quite distant, Wylfred heard every word. Every heart-shattering syllable pulsed in his mind. He kicked the dirt with his foot, hoping to drive the words away with sound.

"Father, you're not dying!" cried Cherphia. She squeezed her lifeline, his hand. Tears snuck past her brave words and made rivers down her face. Her breath came in choppy, sorrow-stroked gasps. Wylfred clenched his sword hilt until wounds reopened and blood dripped down.

"I'm glad you're free of that blasted guild. Live your life free. I'm sorry I couldn't see that waterfall with you," Lockswell wheezed out before death cast it's shadow over his face and his eyes fluttered closed for the last time. Wylfred decided he had to do something before he was completely taken by guilt. He surveyed the landscape, trying to pick out the colors in the forest and sky.

"Father, no! Please, please stay!"

The sky had swirls of ghostly white clouds.

"I'm sorry I never understood about why we were in the guild! Please don't leave now!"

The clouds stood out against the sunset-scarred sky.

"I can't lose you too! I have no one else!"

The orange and red near the sun blended like a festering wound.

"I still need you! Don't leave me alone!"

The setting sun looked like...oh he couldn't do it anymore. Cherphia's sobs vibrated through his being, making him feel heavy and sick. It was hours later when Cherphia finally took her quiet sniffles and lifeless eyes away from her father's form and joined Wylfred in continuing their journey. He couldn't bring himself to say a word. His head was filled with noise, but not the noise of battle.

Quiet sobs were louder than swords.

**Why is this so depressing? I wanted to make a WylxCherphia but then this happened. Wat. Anyway, I'm actually thinking of continuing this. You guys want me to? **


End file.
